Redemption
by drac0d0rmiens
Summary: It is Hermione Granger's fiercest belief that no one is beyond redemption. It is Draco Malfoy's most iron-clad belief that every good girl has a kinky side. When each finds themselves living in uncomfortable proximity to the ostensible exception to their respective convictions, something much more subtle and dangerous emerges.
1. Day 1: Homecoming

**Day 1: Homecoming**

"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." -Nelson Mandela

* * *

_A Hogwarts without Dumbledore_. The idea seemed unfathomable, almost indecent, yet there the castle stood, freshly repaired from the tumultuous war that Hermione remembered so vividly. Yes, there it stood, with its proud turrets tall and its sparkling windows alive with grandeur—_but it will never be the same without Dumbledore_, thought Hermione fiercely.

As she gazed towards the Forbidden Forest and found the marble monument to the old bearded man she so admired, she recalled the recently learned facts about his childhood. Yes, he had dabbled in the Dark Arts. Yes, he had once dreamt of enslaving Muggles 'for the greater good.' But these shocking facts made Hermione even more fond of Dumbledore, because they made him incontrovertible proof of her most iron-clad belief: _that there is no one who is beyond redemption. That it is never too late to do the right thing._ And Dumbledore had done the right thing. He had championed Muggle rights tirelessly. He had taught, by example, the power of truth, friendship, and love. And he had provided her best friend with the tools he needed to defeat Lord Voldemort.

It was September 2000. It had been one year and four months since the fateful Battle of Hogwarts and the fall of the most Dark and dangerous wizard the world had ever seen. Yet, all was far from perfect. Even without Voldemort, the Ministry of Magic continued its sick vendetta against Muggle-born wizards and witches, now spearheaded by its new Minister, Dolores Umbridge. Even without Voldemort, the most loyal of the remaining Death Eaters were scrambling to reform, ripe with vindictive rage at the defeat of their Dark Lord. _In short,_ thought Hermione, _even without Voldemort, the world is still a dark and bigoted place._

* * *

Draco Malfoy entered Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with an arrogant smirk and a triumphant snigger. The new Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, had welcomed Slytherin House back into the school following the War, despite the many protests of dubious Board members,_ with_, thought Draco derisively,_ typically stupid Gryffindorian tolerance._

It was that ridiculous desire to see the good in everyone that had led to the fool Dumbledore's death at the hands of Severus Snape, despite whatever ill-woven stories had been fabricated to ease the mind of Harry Potter. And it was that same desire that had gained Draco re-admittance to Hogwarts with a simple promise to McGonagall that he regretted his allegiance to Voldemort. No Veritaseum was used. No Unbreakable Vow was made. The silly old woman had simply trusted him.

_Well_, thought Draco snidely,_ that was her mistake_. At this very moment, the remnants of the Death Eaters were taking up board in the many guest wings of the luxurious Malfoy Manor, plotting tirelessly for the second infiltration of Hogwarts. Hogwarts was second only the The Boy Who Refused To Die in its role as a bastion of hope for the nauseating Muggle-borns and their despicably noble supporters, and the best way to wreck their morale was a calculated attack on the castle and—Draco forced down the bile that rose in his throat and reminded himself that this is what was right—the slaughter of the Mudbloods that dared to set foot in Hogwarts.

He pushed back the terror he felt when he considered the murder of the Hogwarts students he had grown up with. Though the fierce desire to cleanse the Wizarding World of the unworthy pulsed through his veins as surely as the noble Malfoy blood, he was still nauseated by the actual practice of murder, and still—though he would never admit it—haunted by nightmares of the night on the tower where he had almost murdered a defenseless old man. He shook his head vigorously, enraged with his traitorous thoughts. If there was anything to be ashamed of about that night, it was that he had failed the mission the Dark Lord set for him. He was the secret weapon, and he had failed. Well, he was back at Hogwarts now, and he was their secret weapon, just like last time. _Only this time_, he thought, his handsome jaw set,_ I will not fail._

* * *

The Head Girl badge was gleaming on Hermione's chest, a testament to the hard work and dedication of the last six years at Hogwarts. As she wound through the grounds towards the Headmistress' office, she took in the stubbornly rusted suits of armor, the gaily chattering animated portraits, and the vast lofted ceilings. With her parents still Confunded for their own safety and—Hermione gulped back tears—blissfully unaware that they ever had a daughter, Hogwarts was the closest thing to home she had. Hermione finally understood how Harry felt.

Through the tireless effort of the professors, the castle had been painstakingly restored to its former glory over the past year, during which the school had been closed. The Ministry of Magic, under the strict orders of Dolores Umbridge, had provided no help. A stab of vindictive satisfaction swept through Hermione. Hogwarts didn't require the help of the still-corrupt Ministry, and, _furthermore, _she thought rather nastily, _Dolores Umbridge knows better than to try to interfere at Hogwarts. _So yes, it was without the help of the Ministry that the castle had been repaired, but it had been done beautifully so, and now the halls gleamed so brightly that even Argus Filch seemed appeased.

As enticed as she was by the warm familiarity of the castle, Hermione could not quite suppress a twinge of loneliness for her best friends. Harry and Ron, now that they were of age, were working as full-fledged members of the Order of the Phoenix. The Order, now led by Kingsley Shacklebolt, had taken up temporary headquarters at The Burrow. Though the Horcruxes had been destroyed and Voldemort had been defeated, the work of the Order was far from over. The remaining Death Eaters were mobile and vicious, staging meticulously planned mass Muggle murders and smuggling Dark artifacts amongst their ranks. Furthermore, they seemed to be increasingly intent upon seizing something from the Department of Mysteries. Therefore, the Order was in constant combat with the Death Eaters, attempting to both thwart and make sense of their enemies' goals. In between raids and missions, Harry and Ron were undergoing training similar to that required of Aurors.

Suddenly pulled from her thoughts, Hermione realized she had reached the gargoyles that guarded the Headmistress' quarters. "Catnip?" she offered to the particularly grotesque gargoyle closest to her, feeling utterly ridiculous. "Too right you are!" exclaimed the suddenly animated stone beast, inclining its head jovially as the great gilded door slid open to reveal a winding staircase. Checking her watch to ensure she was neither too early in her eagerness or—Godric forbid—too late, Hermione ascended the marble staircase until she reached the large oval office belonging to Minerva McGonagall.

"Ah, Miss Granger," McGonagall greeted her with a kind nod of the head and a rare smile. Hermione absolutely beamed in response. Professor McGonagall was her favorite of the Hogwarts professors, and a personal idol of hers. "We now await the Head Boy so that we can begin our meeting," said McGonagall. "Please make yourself at home." With a swish of her wand, the elder Gryffindor levitated a tin of biscuits off the shelf behind her and set it hovering before Hermione, then returned to the book she was reading. With nothing else to do, Hermione examined the office.

The office was a roomy oblong circle carved from gleaming white marble. Three alcoves were forged into the marble walls. In the largest alcove, there was a noble lion sculpted from what appeared to be pure gold—no doubt, an homage to McGonagall's Gryffindor roots. The second alcove held the Pensieve, silent in its disuse, but surrounded by the unmistakable aura of the power that comes with knowledge. In the final alcove, atop a knobbly stool, stood the shabby Sorting Hat. Two shelves ran the lengths of the circular walls, and were occupied by numerous tomes with titles ranging from _Inventive Transfiguration for the Advanced Wizard_ to _Principles of Antidote-Brewing._ With a rush of affection, Hermione noticed a tattered copy of _Hogwarts: A History _amongst their midst. Above the shelves hung the portraits of past Headmasters. The wise bearded face of Albus Dumbledore slumbered peacefully in one frame, and the sallow visage of Severus Snape peered down at them from another.

Hermione's reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door, to which Professor McGonagall responded "Come in!" and carefully marked her place before closing her book.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was not surprised to see Hermione Granger seated before him. He had, of course, hoped for a more suitable Head Girl to work with, but had never truly expected anyone to surpass the qualifications of Gryffindor's golden bloody princess. He sneered at her coldly as he took the seat beside her.

"Now," began McGonagall, and Draco had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at the old lady's pompous tone. "I know that the two of you have a history of animosity, but it is my hope that you will be able to overcome this in order to serve your school well." _Not bloody likely, _thought Draco snidely as he kept his face blank. "Here"—McGonagall tapped two sheets of parchment, which immediately filled—"are the lists of the Prefects from each House"—she handed one leaf of identical parchment to each of them—"and"—she summoned two small booklets, which zoomed towards Draco and Hermione—"a list of your duties."

Hermione immediately opened the booklet and began poring over its pages. Draco let out a disgusted snort of laughter at her pathetic enthusiasm, earning him a reproachful look from McGonagall, who found it necessary to add: "If either of you finds him or herself incapable of overcoming the childish prejudices of the past, you will be immediately removed from your post. Is that understood?" "Yes, Professor," chirped Hermione annoyingly. Draco merely provided a curt nod. "Very well," said McGonagall. "You will need to organize a patrol schedule for the upcoming month by tomorrow night. You will also need to hold a meeting for the Prefects as soon as possible, to explain the patrolling duties, which are outlined in your booklets. The password to your quarters is 'gillyweed.' You are dismissed."

* * *

**A/N: **I know this was a very slow and rather short chapter, but it was necessary to set the post-war atmosphere before delving into the story. Thanks for your patience!

Please review!


	2. Day 9: Routine

**Day 9: Routine**

"When you disarm [someone], you commence to offend them and show that you distrust them either through cowardice or lack of confidence, and both of these opinions generate hatred." -Niccolo Machiavelli

* * *

There was no one in the world that Draco Malfoy loathed more than Hermione Granger. Even Potter and Weasley, blood traitors that they were, had the decency to take a proper place of inferiority. But Granger refused to submit to the stark truth of Pureblood superiority, insisting on beating Draco in every class for the past six years. It was infuriating. An inherently second-class set of magic had somehow found its way into Granger's dirty blood, but it was nothing compared to the noble, ancient magic that coursed through Draco's body, as pure and his blood.

Draco didn't _do _magic. He _lived _magic. From the tales of potions and spells that his mother regaled him with as a child, to the venerable magic tucked away in every inch of the Malfoy Manor, to his first broomstick he had received at the age of six, to the imperious teachings of his father, to the Dark Mark that burned, bright and hot, on his left forearm, he was a Malfoy.

And from the stupid, mundane stories her Neanderthal Muggle parents likely spun for her, to the crappy shack he was sure she inhabited, to her complete obliviousness of Quidditch and its place in the wizarding world, to the fumbling inadequacy of her lineage, to the 'MUDBLOOD' carved into her left arm, dark and ugly, she was a Mudblood.

Draco tried to ignore the unpleasant lurch in his stomach when he recalled what his late aunt had done to Granger a mere year ago, pushing down his traitorous revulsion for the barbaric torture he had witnessed in the drawing room of his own home. _Of course the methods were a bit...misguided, _assured himself, _but the fact remains that she doesn't deserve magic._

But as he spilled these thoughts to Pansy and Greg, accompanied with a buck-toothed impression of Granger leaping out of her knickers to answer a professor's question, his friends' laughter did nothing to change the cold truth: that Hermione Granger had outscored him yet again on their latest Arithmancy exam.

* * *

Hermione had settled into a comfortable routine of judiciously ignoring Draco Malfoy: Wake up in the morning. Ignore the low hiss of his shower. Prepare her tea and breakfast in the small kitchenette arching between their dormitories. Ignore the snide comments he spat at her as he sneered down his nose at her Muggle cooking methods. Retreat to her bedroom to dress for class. Ignore the arrogant lilt of his louder-than-necessary voice as he prepared his black-as-a-Malfoy-soul coffee by magic in derision of her Muggle practices. Take a long, warm shower. Ignore (with extreme indignant difficulty) the thorough mistreatment of whichever house-elf had the misfortune of having to bring Malfoy his breakfast. Gather her textbooks and notes from the comfortable study they shared. Ignore the door he left open as he prepared for his busy day of condescension and bigotry. Scamper out of the Head Dormitories before he finished his morning routine, thereby avoiding a steady stream of verbal abuse.

It was on Day 9 of her co-habitance with the nauseating Prince of Slytherin that Hermione realized she was not ignoring Draco Malfoy—she was avoiding him. The realization came with an overwhelming rush of humiliation. _Does he think I'm scared of him?_ she wondered as she gulped her pumpkin juice during her quick lunch between Arithmancy and Potions. She cast a wary eye over to the Slytherin table, where an immaculately groomed Malfoy was holding court for a simpering Pansy Parkinson and a guffawing Gregory Goyle.

A hot surge of anger shot through her body at the sight. She was sure that he fancied the notion that she was frightened of him. The ludicrousness of that idea sent a mirthless noise of derision, unbidden, through her lips, startling the slim, freckled girl seated beside her. "Is everything okay?" Ginny Weasley inquired, eyebrows slightly scrunched with concern. "Oh, yes," Hermione assured her breezily, "Everything is fine. I'm just a little stressed about NEWTs. You know, they determine a lot about your future career options, and personally, I wa—"

"Ron's right, you worry far too much. NEWTs aren't even until second term! There's no way yo—"

"—of course, very advanced subject matter, and Transfiguration is getting a tad diffi—"

"—and George didn't get any NEWTs, and look how well he's doing, he's practically rolling in Galleons as we spea—"

"—know that the practical for Defense Against the Dark Arts will probably include at least identification of the Unforgivabl—"

"You're brilliant, Hermione," Ginny cut in firmly, ending the argument with a pointed look and taking her hand for a brief second and squeezing it. She paused, teetering on the edge of speech, then returned rather hastily to her mashed potatoes. As Hermione packed up her bag to leave, Ginny said in a quiet voice: "It's okay, Hermione. I miss them, too."

As Hermione swept out of the Great Hall under the pretense of urgency, unshed tears bit at the back of her stubborn eyes. She missed them more than she could say: the affable ease of Harry's brilliant smile and unwarranted modesty, and the endearing awkwardness of Ron's crass joking and genuine warmth.

She felt the burn of embarrassment rise to her cheeks as she imagined the fuss they would make over how Malfoy was treating her. But inside, Hermione felt that it was not Malfoy to be fussed at. Of course he would act like an arrogant git. It was all that he knew. After all, he was a Slytherin. But Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor. And with the familiar swell of courage enveloping her chest in a blazing effulgence, this Gryffindor had made up her mind: she would avoid him no longer.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry if this one was a little short. I intend to update pretty soon with a fairly long chapter, though. Please leave your honest reviews! If I get any, I will reply to them next time! Thanks so much for reading.


	3. Day 27: Lumos

**Day 27: Lumos**

"What is simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is." -Bright Eyes

* * *

Hermione Granger was in love with the study in the Head Dormitories. It was cozy and familiar, with its handsome mahogany desks and well-stocked bookshelves, and was quickly surpassing the library as her favorite place in the castle.

It was 2 AM, but Hermione couldn't tear herself away from the essay in which she had been fully immersed for the past four hours. There was nothing more pleasing to Hermione than the meticulous assimilation of facts into the informative flow of a well-composed essay, and she relished the time spent in quiet wonder at the world of magic and its many secrets. She paused, dipping her quill into its inkwell, and began her introductory sentence on the eleventh and penultimate use of dragon blood, when a coarse cry—then another—broke her concentration.

Hermione tried to ignore Malfoy's tortured exclamations, but they tore at her conscience like a rabid beast until she could no longer stand it. Sighing, she pushed her near-completed essay to the side and stood. Her muscles ached from lack of use, and she stretched languidly. She gathered her books and notes, sweeping them into her bag, and turned to her sleeping quarters when seven words shattered the air around her:

"I don't want to be my father."

Hermione had never considered Draco Malfoy as anything but the extension of Lucius Malfoy: cruel, arrogant, and bigoted. But as her hand, by its own accord, stretched out to the doorknob of the Malfoy heir's room, she felt guilty with presumption. Perhaps Malfoy was different than his father. Perhaps, deep down, there was an inkling of decency in Draco Malfoy that was entirely his own.

"Lumos," she whispered into the pitch-black void of the Head Boy's sleeping quarters. A pale blue light erupted from the end of her wand and bathed the room in its quiet warmth. Hermione immediately regretted her curiosity as the scene before her made the breath hitch in her throat. Draco Malfoy looked so very young in his slumbering anguish. His sharp, aristocratic features were contorted with torment, his pale hands were clenched with relentless fervor, and his white-blond hair was plastered to his forehead with perspiration.

Suddenly, Hermione felt very small and very naked. She turned and scampered out of the room, not quite understanding the lump that rose, large and persistent, to the back of her throat.

* * *

Sleep did not come easily to Draco Malfoy. His dreams were infested with unsolicited memories of torture, both experienced and performed, and confusing images came to him in a nauseating vortex of mingled rage and regret: his father, gaunt with terror, prostrate before the Dark Lord, begging for his life; his mother, exquisite even in her fright, standing helpless as she watched; the Dark Lord, snake-like and emotionless, pressing his wand into Draco's forearm as the Dark Mark blossomed, dark and painful, across his pale skin...

Draco sat up in his bed, sickened with the memories of his past, and furious with his own weakness. How could he be afraid of the efforts of the noblest of wizardkind to rid the magical world of the unworthy?

Draco glanced at the clock across from his bed: 4 AM. Pulling on a pair of silk green pyjamas over his boxers, he padded out to the study, intending to distract himself with his duties. He recalled Granger bent studiously over a list of prefect rotation, and walked over to her desk in pursuit of the parchment, but found only a stack of textbooks and some spare parchment. Annoyed, he strode over to her door, pushing it open and stepping into the darkness.

"Lumos," he muttered, his voice taut with irritability, and began to rifle through the papers on her desk, finally coming upon the rotation list and snatching it rather jerkily. As he turned to leave, his wandlight fell upon Granger's sleeping form, and shock reverberated through his brain.

Hermione Granger lay completely naked in the soft blue light of his illuminating spell, her petite body deliciously exposed. Against his own better judgement, Draco quietly approached the girl whom he so loathed, his irritation dissolving rapidly as he considered the slumbering form before him. Her skin looked warm and electric, pebbled with small goosebumps in the slight coolness of the October night. Her breasts were full and perky, coming to a jaunty point with the pinkest nipples Draco had ever seen. Her even pinker lips were parted slightly. Her legs were long and slender, and as his gaze slid up to where they met, he felt a longing twitch in the pit of his stomach as his cock strained against the fabric of his boxers. Clutching the parchment he had come for tightly in his fist, he turned on his heel and fled.

When Draco returned to his room, he sat at his desk and stared at the prefect rotation chart without seeing, his mind emblazoned with the naked Granger that slept mere yards away. The hardness of his cock was becoming too painful to ignore, and, absently, without thinking, he snaked his hand downwards and grasped it, pumping it vigorously and imagining Granger: her soft lips on his aching cock, her creamy thighs clenched around his back, her ripe breasts in his demanding grip. Draco came with a grunt, then cast a quick _Scourgify _to clean his mess.

As the sublime bliss of his orgasm fled his now-relaxed body, it was replaced with furious horror at what had just transpired. He, Draco Malfoy, who could have shagged any girl in the castle, had instead wanked to the sleeping form of a filthy Mudblood. Bile rose in his throat as he recalled his traitorous arousal. How could he lower himself to be infected with such thoughts? How could he, even in his imagination, allow such vermin to touch him? What would his father say?

Rushing to the bathroom, Draco barely made it to the toilet before the contents of his stomach exploded from his mouth, leaving him panting on the cool tile floor. As he stood, he considered himself in the mirror. He was tall and sturdy, with arctic grey eyes and sharp features. _Just like my father, _he thought with a surge of pride. A fresh bout of nauseating guilt swept over him, and he trained his hawthorn wand on himself, grimacing in anticipation and perverted need, and bit out the word that his father was not there to speak for him: "_Crucio._"

Draco's nerves exploded with agony, liquid desperation spewing hot and vicious through his pleading form. Unadulterated pain throbbed through every inch of his mind and body, and through the haze of anguish came the perverted sense of release: he deserved this. And he deserved it, again and again, as he tortured himself until the sun broke the horizon, and morning came to find him, crumpled on the floor—he was broken. He was shattered. He was complete.

* * *

They say you never really know a person until you live with them. Hermione Granger knew that Draco Malfoy drank his coffee completely black. She knew that he was left-handed, woke up early, disliked clutter, and wore tan wool socks. She knew that he slept on his back and spoke fluent French. She knew that he organized his books by time period, then by personal preference within that time period. And she didn't mind knowing any of this.

What she minded knowing was what she found that lumos-lit morning. Because now Hermione Granger knew that Draco Malfoy was deeply and wrenchingly human. And as much as she told herself that it didn't change anything, the desperate ache in her heart knew that it changed everything.

Hermione resumed feverishly compiling snippets of information from various resources on the twelve uses of dragon blood, hating herself for how little she cared about her essay and how much she cared about the soul of a man she should hate. Merlin, she was really losing it.

* * *

**A/N: **Please let me know what you think!


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